When the waiter brings the bill, Basaran snatches it up and waves his cigar again. "Do not protest. This is my pleasure." He looks at his watch and says, "Alas, I must call an end to our very pleasant evening together. I do wish you luck with your Interpol report, Mr. Fisher. I hope to have a copy of it when it is published."
"Certainly. Thank you very much for the dinner."
"Not at all."
We stand after he leaves a stack of bills on the table. We say good night to the maitre d' and step outside into the brisk night air. The big bodyguard appears from the shadows to stand beside his master. Basaran holds out his hand and I shake it. "Good night, Mr. Fisher. Pleasant journeys."
"Thank you. You, too."
I have to cross the surprisingly busy main street that cuts through the square. I wait as five cars rumble by and casually look back to the restaurant and see Basaran and the bodyguard still standing there, watching me. I give them a little wave and Basaran does the same. I turn back to the road and see the approaching headlights of a sixth car some distance away. I figure I can make it across the square before it gets here. As I step off the pavement, the car's wheels screech and the vehicle speeds toward me.
For the first time in my life I freeze. Even as it's happening I realize I'm unable to move and I don't know why. Normally I would have reacted by instinct and leaped to the side, but for some reason that I cannot fathom I don't know what to do. I'm a deer on the road, caught in the beams.
Something prompts me to look back at Basaran. He, too, seems to be frozen in place, his eyes glued to me. Why isn't he moving? Shouldn't he be shouting "Mr. Fisher, look out!" or something like that?
And that's what jars my senses. It's hisreaction to what's happening that causes me to break out of my immobility. The headlights are a mere couple of car lengths away, propelling toward me at ninety miles an hour. I leap away, fall on my hands, and roll backward just as the car roars past. It's an old Citroen. I turn my head to watch them, and the car screeches to a halt, half a block down. I see the silhouettes of three men inside. Namik Basaran and the bodyguard are still behind me in front of the restaurant and haven't moved.
The Citroen's driver throws the car into reverse and begins rolling back at a high speed. A guy in the passenger seat thrusts his upper body out the window and leans over the hood--and he's holding an AK-47. I jump to my feet and run for cover, but there's nothing but the storefronts behind me. The shooter fires and the street becomes a crashing war zone. I slam forward and hit the ground as bullets rip over my head. The windows of the travel agency behind me shatter, and someone inside shouts. The Citroen squeals to a halt again, ready to move forward for another volley. I'm aware of other civilians, alerted by the noise, looking out of restaurants and shops.
When the gunfire begins again, the bystanders scream and run. I realize I have to lead the killers away from the pedestrians, so I do what might be considered a foolhardy thing and jump to my feet. I run into the middle of the road and stand behind the Citroen as it moves along the street. They seem to have lost sight of me. Should I run for my car? It's about fifty yards away in a small lot on the opposite side of the square. No, it's too risky. By the time I got there, they'd be on top of me. The Pazhan could never withstand a round of fire from an AK-47.
The shooter points and says something to the driver. They've spotted me. The Citroen performs a wild U-turn and accelerates in my direction. I run to the opposite side of the square, the side next to the water. A short brick wall separates the road from the marina and a small lot where seven or eight cars are parked. I sail over the wall just as the bullets begin to fly again. Chips from the stones in the wall scatter like shrapnel, so I hug the ground. I hear the car zoom past, shriek to a stop, and back up, swerving closer to the edge of the road.
This time my instincts don't fail me. I roll like a log toward the parked cars and then squirm between a Chevrolet pickup and a Volkswagen. The passenger sprays the side of the street, perforating the two vehicles with dozens of bullets. Windshields and headlights explode and tires are blown. I snake beneath the pickup as the rounds ricochet within inches of my body. The noise is deafening and must surely be attracting the local police. I hopeit's attracting the local police!
I crawl on my belly out from under the front of the pickup, putting the truck between them and me. I keep low and rally toward the dock where dozens of small boats are moored. The guy stops shooting, but I hear the Citroen's door open and slam shut. Now they're on foot.
I run to the edge of the dock and weigh my options. I could jump into the water and swim. Or I could jump into one of the sailboats to my left or right, but by the time I untie one and push it off, they'd be in the boat with me. The last recourse would be to draw my Five-seveN from the holster I wear at the small of my back and fight back. That could cause problems with the local authorities, though, and my mission is too sensitive to get involved in foreign legal problems. I don't fancy spending the rest of my life in a Turkish prison.
The shooter appears at the other end of the dock. He raises the AK-47 and fires. The wood splinters in a million places at my feet as I turn and dive into the cold, murky water.
It's a shock. Thank heavens I'm wearing my uniform; otherwise I'd be freezing. It's dark as hell, but I don't risk using the LED on my OPSAT for illumination. They might be able to see me from the surface.
As I swim away from the shore, bullets chop through the water, producing that otherworldly slow-motion effect you get when you fire a gun into water. Even in the pitch black I can see the trails of the rounds cutting lines on all sides of me. One comes dangerously close to my ear, and I feel the heat emanating from it as it groans past. I quickly reverse direction and swim back toward the dock and hope they can't see me. I'm pretty good at holding my breath. That's another thing that Krav Maga classes teach you--stamina and resistance to pain. My lungs are strong--the last time I timed myself holding my breath, I clocked a little less than four minutes. It was Katia Loenstern that pushed me to achieve a score past three minutes. I'll have to remind myself to be nicer to her when I get back to Baltimore.
I make my way to the line of sailboats on one side of the dock. I feel the hull of the first one and swim on, past the second and third. I figure it's been at least two minutes since I submerged because my lungs are burning. When I can't take it anymore, I dare to surface between the boats so I can catch a breath. As I hold on to the side of one of the rocking crafts, I hear two men talking on the dock above me. They're down at the end, maybe thirty feet away. It sounds as if they're arguing. I can't understand the language, but I know it's not Turkish. Actually it sounds like Farsi, but I'm not positive.
The man with the gun suddenly lets loose with another barrage of gunfire into the water, and the other one shouts at him to stop. More arguing. Then I hear the men walk toward the shore, their boots clomping on the wood above me. I dunk my head and position myself directly beneath the sailboat and wait. More gunfire darts the water between the boats, but I'm safely out of the way.
Where the hell are the police in this town? This is one time when I wouldn't mind some interference.
Another minute passes and I feel the pressure in my chest. The gunfire stops and I need to suck some air, but I'm not moving yet. I wait at least another thirty seconds--when I know I can't take it anymore--before coming back up. When I do, I gasp for oxygen as quietly as possible and listen. I hear nothing. They're gone. Maybe they think I'm dead.